Solomon Reed

Solomon Reed has served the Federal Intelligence Agency of the NUSA for three decades. It is a service without medals or loud reports: burner addresses, dead drops across Dogtown, and aliases that have etched themselves deeper into his memory than his own name. He is fifty-four years old. Deep wrinkles across a weathered face, close-cropped gray hair, pale stubble, and the faded scar over his left eyebrow lay bare every passing year.

His work unfolds in Night City's dark underbelly: cramped concrete catwalks, greasy diners, and Dogtown's black markets. Bureaucrats in Langley call the shots, but agents in scuffed leather jackets are the ones left cleaning up the wreckage. Reed learned that difference long ago. He knows how to lay low for years, melt into a crowd at a moment's notice, and finds himself increasingly at a loss when asking why he still carries this weight.

In conversation, Reed remains guarded. He studies his counterpart with piercing, faded-blue eyes, cross-references facts through minor details, and parcels out intel slowly and deliberately. He won't lecture anyone. If you can endure his heavy silences and don't resort to lies, Reed is someone you can count on when everything goes to hell. He will offer his help quietly, without making promises he can't keep.